


turning tables

by preromantics



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson is not a very good wingman, but Danny already knew that. / Actually, Danny has no idea why he’s not stopping this trainwreck of a night from happening already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turning tables

“You’re actually here,” Danny says, momentarily dumbfounded by the sight of Jackson’s car at the end of his driveway. 

“Of course,” Jackson says, waving a hand toward his passenger seat with one of his milder eyerolls. (Danny has them catalogued; for Christmas one year he gave Jackson a list of his top ten sassy facial expressions with admittedly hilarious critique on what needed skill and situation honing and he knows Jackson still has it in the dresser drawer he keeps watches and cufflinks in.)

There is a reason Danny considers club time a non-Jackson time. And that reason is because Danny wants to possibly start a relationship with someone before introducing them to his best friend, or at the very least get some action on a Friday night. 

“Get in,” Jackson says. “You know idling is bad for the engine.”

Danny slides into the passenger seat and manages not to slump down out of frustration. “I’m not going to be your babysitter tonight, Whittemore,” he says. “You are going to get hit on. By guys.”

Jackson revs the engine with a short grin and speeds out of the driveway. “Of course I am,” he says.

Danny just nods and reaches out to change the music, happy as always to be the only person in Jackson’s life that isn’t automatically hand-slapped away from the controls.

“So,” Jackson says, a few minutes into the ride, “why haven’t you invited me before?” He shoots a brief exaggerated puppy-face (that stopped working on Danny so long ago it’s not even worth it, but he still distantly appreciates the effort, even if he’s not sure why it still works on the Whittemores when Jackson wants something) toward Danny in emphasis.

“Technically I didn’t even invite you this time,” Danny says. “But come on, you know it’s not exactly your scene.”

“Wingman? Me, awesome at it,” Jackson says with a flick of his hand on the steering wheel.

“No,” Danny says. He’s seen Jackson trying to wingman for him and it’s painful. Actually, Danny has no idea why he’s not stopping this trainwreck of a night from happening already. 

But the night looks up a little when they actually get to the club and Danny gets to watch Jackson swagger down the line toward the bouncer to get inside, only to be be turned down with a single look, the kind of look Jackson rarely sees, and Danny, against his better judgement, saves his ass with a nod at the bouncer — Lewis, who is actually a pretty funny guy when it’s last call and he’s chain smoking and laughing about the neon trend while Danny tries to find his car keys in his jacket — who lets them in when he sees they’re together. 

“Weird,” is Jackson’s only response to the situation before they duck around a couple making out in the entrance into the thick air and vibrating bass of the main floor. 

“So,” Danny says, “this is happening.”

“Just do whatever you normally do and I’ll help,” Jackson says, puffing out his chest a little as he looks around.

It takes five minutes for Danny to lose sight of Jackson in the crowd and at least fifteen for him to stop worrying about it enough to dance with the guy that slides up behind him, a possessive hand on his waist that Danny could do without, but the roll of his hips is good enough to even it out. 

Jackson chooses then to show back up, though, a wide grin on his face and a two drinks in his hands. He looks at the guy dancing up on Danny and rolls his eyes.

“You should shave your knuckles,” Jackson says to the guy, looking pointedly down at the hand curled over Danny’s hip. 

The guy yells “what?” too loudly in Danny’s ear, and Danny shrugs him off, grateful at least that he didn’t hear, which means Danny can stop worrying about Jackson getting punched for it.

“That’s not what wingman do, I think,” Danny comments, gratefully taking his drink from Jackson’s outstretched hand when the guy moves on to someone else anyway and being a really awesome friend by not dumping it on Jackson because he’s a cockblock.

“I’m only looking out for your best interests,” Jackson shrugs.

Except he does it with the next three guys, too, and nearly gets a drink in the face when he slides up to the cute blonde kid Danny managed to snag with a once-over that the kid definitely thinks is an invite before crushing him with, “God, do people still shop at Sears?”

Danny drags him outside to the car, barely an hour into the night, which wasn’t promising anyway, but is still annoying. “Let’s talk out your major issues or set some wingman ground rules, Jackson, dude, seriously,” is the nicest thing he can think to open with when they get to Jackson’s car.

“Those dudes were assholes,” Jackson says, being really weird and caging Danny in against the front of the car. 

“I can handle myself,” Danny says. “I just didn’t know I needed to try to handle you, too. I’m open to this okay, if you want to be here, but we need to work this shit out.”

“Let’s not,” Jackson says, and then he’s pressing Danny forward against the hood of his car and dragging his nose against Danny’s neck and then leaning in to kiss him, what the —

“No,” Danny says, “come on, not happening. Yes you are attractive to 90% of the population, including me, but this is not happening, it’s — ”

Jackson cuts him off by running a thumb over his jawline, catching on his bottom lip mid-sentence and Danny freezes on instinct. This is beyond typical, beyond Jackson fishing for praise, a compliment to reassure him he’s everyone’s type. The way he’s looking, wide-eyed and furrow-browed at Danny right now is different and, if Danny hadn’t been dealing with Jackson’s bullshit for so many years, might even be sincere. 

“It’s happening,” Jackson says. He pauses with his thumb still dragging down the center of Danny’s lip and that’s — if it were anyone else, or if this had been freshman year and late-night lacrosse one on one sessions ending in play wrestling on damp grass, well. 

“If you want it to,” Jackson adds, lifting the pressure of his thumb and grazing Danny’s chin before his hand drops back down to his side and that — that is definitely something different. Not even a hint of adding anything else, nothing like, and I know you do, nothing cocky. 

“Jesus, Jackson,” Danny says, and gives up all at once when Jackson ducks his head a little to skirt his other hand along the edge of Danny’s jacket and over his thigh. The ridiculous look on his face when Danny backs him up in the tiny space between the car and the wall is almost enough to give him pause until Danny really sees what it is, doubt and a kind of skittish triumph he hasn’t seen on Jackson’s face since varsity lacrosse try-outs and making the team, like there was any chance he wouldn’t make it, like he couldn’t have gotten in on swagger and maybe money alone, but wanted to make the cut because he was actually good, driven enough to stay out practicing long after Danny had fallen asleep under the oak tree in the Whittemore’s backyard, watching the fluid motion of Jackson’s arm and stick, moving as one. 

“Just —” Danny tries, but he cuts himself off, leaning in for the barest brush of a kiss, waiting for the freeze and flinch he expects, waiting to lean back, roll his eyes, knock shoulders and laugh it off, maybe even have a deep and overdue discussion about Jackson’s need to please everyone while going at it with completely misguided motivation on the car ride home. 

Except none of that happens because Jackson just groans, pulling Danny closer by the waist and opening his mouth on a broken little noise that Danny can’t even handle, pressing in and kissing Jackson fully, trying to chase that noise into a happier, fuller one. 

“What,” he manages, pressed between slightly desperate kisses, the sound of his own voice startling him back a half step. 

Jackson looks completely lost for a moment, his arms extending to chase Danny’s skin where he’d rucked up Danny’s shirt. 

“What?” Jackson echos, clears his throat and steps back into Danny’s face. “Whatever, it doesn’t —”

“Jackson,” Danny says, plaintively, stepping back as Jackson advances. It’s his no-bullshit voice, maybe with a little waver, but this —

“Look, okay, those guys in there?” Jackson jabs his thumb vaguely behind his shoulder. “None of them deserved you, none of them were right for you. You deserve someone awesome, none of those dickheads.”

“Someone like you?” Danny fills in, only a tiny bit of half-hearted sarcasm present. 

Jackson pauses, leaning back toward the wall, and that’s — different. “No,” he says, rubbing over his face, voice rough around the word, one syllable. “No, someone way, way better than me.”

The first thing Danny thinks to say is, “Did someone drug you?”, an automatic response that falls out of his mouth before he can stop it because whoever just said those words is not his best friend. But god, it is Jackson, it’s everything that goes unsaid in the constant fight featuring Jackson vs. the world, and the way Jackson leans back against the wall only to tip his head back and laugh is the worst thing about the entire night. 

“Hey,” Danny says, stepping back into Jackson’s space and nudging their shoulders together. 

Jackson rolls his eyes, but it’s as bad an eyeroll as Danny has ever seen, so he leans in and catches Jackson’s temple with a quick and hard press of his lips instead. “You know I love you, right?” he says. “You’re a dick, and yet.”

“Magnetism,” Jackson says, his lips pursed around whatever he wants to bottle back inside. 

Danny thinks that’s it, all he’s going to get out of the night, and turns toward the car, already planning for something to talk about on the way home, like how co-captain is an awful thing to have to put on college applications, he totally understands Jackson’s pain, but Jackson grabs his wrist mid-turn and pulls him close.

Danny stays still, lets Jackson move, cup his jaw in both hands and lean in for the most tender kiss Danny has ever received, slow and purposeful, slick where their lips meet and are still wet from before. 

Jackson steps back as easily as he’d stepped forward, breaking all points of contact and straightening the collar of his own jacket, leaving Danny with a momentarily upside-down world view. 

“Come on,” Jackson says, “I don’t want your mom to kill me if she sees me dropping you off any later.”

Danny breathes a little amazed laugh out through his nose and shakes his head, but follows Jackson into the car.

“I’m going to be better for everyone, for you,” Jackson says, calm and even as he twists around to back his car out of the parking lot. 

The silence stretches for too long, back out on the road, too much to process, and Danny isn’t even sure Jackson is still paying attention when he finds his answer, but he says it anyway.

“I’ll wait,” he says.


End file.
